Real
by kardamon
Summary: This life, him – it's nothing like the neat, happy image she used to dream about when she lied curled alone in her bed, listening through the closed door to the crushing furniture and yells of the drunken man. It is a messy affair, the two of them. But she'd already tried to take the other route, again and again, and every time it all fell apart like a house of cards.
**...because they are masters of pointing out their issues, but rarely stick around long enough to talk them out, let alone resolve.**

 **Takes place on the way back to the camp after escaping from the Others in season 3, during the scene in 'Tricia Tanaka is Dead' episode, right after Sawyer hurts his leg on a dart and Kate says that they could start again, a clean slate. Skate, through and through.**

 **Unbetaed.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own 'Lost'.**

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It catches her off guard: a pang of tenderness, strong and sudden, like a sharp tug at her heart. It comes out of nowhere, sneaking on her for no apparent reason as she listens to him grumbling in response to her teasing, a deep frown set on his face. He's adorably defensive when he fires off excuses for watching the old, corny TV show and she cannot help but think how rare it is for him to share some innocent tidbit from his past, let alone his childhood. This is something that never ceases to amaze her about Sawyer, though she rarely lets herself to acknowledge it – his ability to retain some tiny part of that innocent child he'd once been, buried deep within his heart, despite everything he does to convince everyone that there is nothing left of that in him, and what he so adamantly believes himself: that he's no good.

Yet, she feels like there is something undeniably boyish about him: his relentless, inappropriate sense of humor, the whole surprisingly strongly developed, emotional side to him that made him strangely vulnerable to the hurt. It occurs to her, that given everything what happened to him and what he's done, it would be fully understandable if he became a monster. There is, however, something very resilient – or maybe just plain stubborn – at his core, that refuses to change, no matter how much he hardens himself on the outside.

A confusing wave of protectiveness washes over her and she tells herself that she's being ridiculous, because not only is he fine, the small cut on his foot he is currently tending to hardly something to worry about, but also she knows well just how ungracious he can be about accepting anybody's help.

…but at the same time, a fresh memory of him staring down the wrong end of the rifle sends a cold shudder down her spine. Kate swallows thickly and lets her eyes trace his tan arms, taking in the curved line of his bent neck and sloped shoulders that made him look better when his shirt was off than when it was on; strong jaw cowered in stubble and the place where she knew his cheeks would dimple with the slightest of his smile. She pushes down the nauseating feeling that threatens to resurface at the thought of him dead, his body lying in the mud, sprawled on the hard, dirty floor behind the iron bars of the cage. Because the unpleasant truth is, had it not been for Jack's good timing, Pickett would have most probably shot Sawyer like a dog, and she would be the only one who would have truly cared, the only one to miss him, and it seems so unfair, because she _knows_ he deserves more than that.

 _Her foul-mouthed, gentle-hearted killer._

She reaches out and puts her hand on his forearm before she can talk herself out of it, needing to touch him to reassure herself that he's all right. His arm is warm, but the contact sends a small bolt of electricity through her, that frankly she should have expected by now. He looks up at her questioningly, shaggy hair falling into his eyes, and suddenly she wants nothing more than to mend that rift that has been between them since they left the other island on the stolen boat. She's no stranger to bickering with Sawyer, but something about their latest argument feels very wrong and makes her more upset than usually.

She realizes with a start, that on the top of everything, he somehow managed to become her best friend: someone, who can see right through you and who would always call you on your bullshit, but who is also the one you would turn to if you needed help with hiding a body. Someone, who, if it push comes to shove, can take seeing your worst side and not back away. Someone who understands.

It seems an insane notion, considering how much time they spend fighting, but as tumultuous as their relationship is, she feels most herself when she is around him. Kate is so used to pretending to be someone else, or at least to be a certain version of herself, that it is a second nature to her to slip into a chosen character, but there is no use lying to Sawyer. One of his cocky smirks could be enough to bring back to the surface whatever she's been trying to hide. She doesn't feel the need to censor herself when it comes to him and it feels liberating.

But of course, it isn't that simple either. They could never be just friends, the attraction between them not at all platonic and barely containable, the pull much too strong to stop halfway. The more time passed, it was only becoming clearer that eventually it was going to be all or nothing. The idea that the moment might be coming close is unsettling, because she doesn't want to lose him, but she's not in a place where she would like to make him any promises either. She doesn't like the tension that settled between them over the last few days, but she can't think of the words to tell him that wouldn't make it any worse than it already is.

She knows why he is acting the way he is. It doesn't take a genius to pinpoint the source of his bad mood, the words she didn't return hanging heavily in the air, Sawyer's suspicion growing hauntingly by a minute until it was like an unwanted third companion on the journey, his disappointment and bitterness like a living thing between them. She has a pretty good idea where his mind must be at this point. He probably thinks that what happened was only circumstantial for her, after all. That he was a fool to believe that she might actually choose him. That he could never be her first choice.

Always the second best. A consolation prize. A short-lived, steamy affair, explosive, but ultimately meaningless. A quick trip to the wild side, you forget all about when you get home. _A pity fuck._

The words make her wince, even unvoiced, and she knows that if it hurts her to think them, it must hurt him more, and that every time she brings up the need to go back for Jack makes her sound like she's trying to make up for some mistake she made, but damn it, she can't pretend like it's not an issue! Abandoning Jack in the hands of the Others was wrong, and she couldn't just let it go for the sake of Sawyer's fragile ego.

She knows he cares about her. Of course she knows, he made it clear enough with constantly seeking her company, with sharing things with her, with his – almost unwilling – habit of showing her the guarded parts of him, not to mention his clumsy attempts to make her leave him behind in that rusty cage. And she cares for him too, the feelings she'd never meant to develop twisting inside her anxiously and very, very real. It's different for him to say those things, though, as she has no doubt that the words had easily slipped out of his mouth countless times before, on many occasions she doesn't really want to ponder on. It's not that she thinks he was trying to trick her, but she's not sure how much weight the words really hold to him. Maybe he was just trying to do the right thing? Maybe he thought this was something he was supposed to say? Maybe he thought she expected it?

"What?" he asks shaking her out of thoughts and she realizes that he's looking at her expectantly, waiting for her answer. There is wariness in his eyes and it breaks her heart a little when it occurs to her that he expects her to mock him.

She just looks at him for a beat, not saying a word, her hand still on his forearm, and she has no idea what it is that he sees in her eyes, but it definitely makes him take notice, because the look on his face changes.

"What…?" he asks again, but this time in entirely different manner, almost in a whisper.

Instead of replying, she leans forward, still wordlessly, and kisses him softly. He watches her searchingly when she pulls away and she can see that he's not sure what all of that means.

"I mean it," she says, her thumb moving over his skin in a slow caress. "Let's start over. We're going to be at the camp in a few minutes. I don't want to go back there arguing with you."

In that moment, she just wants to make it simple again, to kiss and make up and try to make it work. She's not good at commitments – neither is he, for that matter – endlessly scared of putting down the roots she so longs for at times, the need to run in her very blood, but she's so tired of being alone, of leaving people behind, of losing everything she cares about. This life, him – it's nothing like the neat, happy image she used to dream about when she lay curled alone in her bed, listening in the dark through the closed door to the crushing furniture and yells of the drunken man.

Sawyer is never going to be that nice, stable guy she pictured by her side. He is not _safe_. It is a messy affair, the two of them. They would always argue and clash. There would be no rose petals and suburban houses with a tidy yards in her future if she chose him. But she'd already tried to take the other route, again and again, and every time it all fell apart like a house of cards, because in the end, she just couldn't do that, couldn't take it for too long, always had to mess it up one way or another, before the walls of her perfect house closed on her and suffocated her.

Maybe it is time to change the approach and stop thinking about what she imagined was _supposed_ to make her happy. Maybe she doesn't need a guy that would go out there to shield her, guns blazing, while she waited in her safe, pretty home, but a one that would _hand_ her a gun, so she could stand side by side with him. Maybe it is time to accept that love is not something you can plan.

For the first time, Kate realizes that while Jack makes her want to act like someone better than she is, Sawyer challenges her in a different way: forcing her to look back and face who she _is_ – to finally deal with the things she always runs from.

There is a second when he blinks slowly and she thinks that maybe-maybe, by some miracle, he is just going to let it all go, but then of course she has to open her mouth again and add: "You just need to say…"

He cuts in swiftly, angrily: "…that I'm sorry?" His voice is sharp, contemptuous. He arches one brow and shoots her a look she knows all too well. "Thanks, but I think I'll pass."

He jerks his hand away and gets up quickly, still with a slight, temporary limp in his step.

"I got nothing to apologize for, 'cause I ain't sorry. And don't worry about when we come back," he tosses her way. "I won't give you any trouble."

"I don't…"

She looks up at him, not understanding, before he continues: "Let's just cut the crap, pumpkin, all right? I don't feel like playing games anymore. Just say what you gotta say, so we can get it out of the way. Get it off your chest and let's go. Like you said, you won't have to deal with me in a few minutes."

"What are you even talking about?"

"Oh, don't give me that look! And don't you get all innocent and self-righteous on me. I get it. Believe me, I do. Strange shit was going on. We were in a creepy place. You needed an outlet. I was there. You took what you wanted. Now, you want to forget all about it, but you don't know how to break it to me and you worry that I might start to brag about it. Well, no need to sweat it, sweetheart," he drawled sarcastically. "Nothing to brag about. I'll keep my mouth shut. Be your dirty little secret."

Kate feels her heartrate picking up, not sure if she should take his last comment as an insult, but it's pretty obvious that she was right. She shouldn't have let him stew on that for so long, knowing where his mind was wandering. She should have said something sooner.

"James, wait," she says scrambling to her feet.

"It's not like it was a big deal, right?" he goes on. "Just a quick romp on some craphole island…"

"Hey! Come back here! Would you shut up and listen for a moment?"

"…That's all I'm good for, anyway," He chuckles humorlessly. "I just wish you told me from the beginning this is how it is gonna be, so I wouldn't make a fool of myself…"

"Sawyer!" she shouts, finally losing any resemblance of patience.

"Oh, so it's Sawyer now, huh?"

She opens and closes her mouth, running out of the ideas how to deal with him.

"I don't even know what you want to be called," she says frustrated.

He shifts uncomfortably and a hesitant look flashes through his face, quick as a wink. Her eyes widen when it hits her that he's not sure about the answer himself and it dawns on her just how truly lost he is.

He crosses his arms and looks up defiantly, as if daring her to comment.

"It's not fair," she says forcing herself to stay calm. "That's not what happened and you know it."

"Do I?" he asks gravely, his voice so low it sounds almost threateningly. They stand across from each other, eyes caught in a stare-down. "Then look me in the eye and tell me that you didn't do that 'cause you thought I was going to die."

Seconds tick off as they look at each other, the only sound surrounding them the ever-present rustling of the leaves in the jungle.

Kate licks her lips nervously, because she can't completely deny what he said. She sucks in the air to say something, but at the same instant he decides that she took too long and shakes his head twisting his lips in a mirthless smile.

"That's what I thought," he says before turning on his heel and starting to walk away.

Something snaps inside her at the sight.

"You're right!" she calls after him, her voice coming out hoarse and uneven. He freezes on the spot, but doesn't turn back. "Yes, I did think you were going to die! Yes, that's why I came to you! Because I was scared that could be the last time I would ever see you! I was terrified they would kill you and I'd never get a chance to touch you, and to kiss you, and to hold you again! That we'd wasted all the time we'd got! And yes, I feel guilty about running away with you and leaving Jack behind! You know why that is? Because I asked him to save you! I knew I was his weak spot and I exploited it! I didn't care if it was wrong, or that I used him… I just… didn't care. So I went to him and begged him to do exactly what they wanted."

"Why?" Sawyer asks softly. She's still talking to the back of his head.

"So they would leave you alone, you dumb bastard! Because all I knew was that I couldn't imagine being on this island without you. So guess what? You can piss off, Sawyer! I don't care what you'll do, whether you go or stay. I'm going back for him, because I owe him that. You don't like that? Well, I'd say it's your problem. I didn't leave _you_ there. I left _him_. I never left you!"

She has to take a deep breath, because she's almost panting at this point. Her body shivers all over with rage, or maybe something else entirely. Suddenly, she feels paralyzed as the truth of her own words crashes on her: she could have left him, but she didn't. Granted, she wouldn't get too far, seeing as they were on another island at the time, but she didn't know that. She remembers crystal clear the moment when she stubbornly climbed back into her cage, refusing to leave Sawyer alone despite his insistence. And she knows he remembers it too.

He turns around slowly and their eyes lock again – a long, pained, soulful look – and then he throws his head back and closes his eyes. He sighs, mutters something under his breath and rubs his hands over his face.

"All right, all right," he says throwing his arms in the air in a gesture of capitulation. "We'll go back for him."

She hasn't quite run off steam she'd worked up before, though.

"We?" she asks incredulously. " _You_ want to go? Really?"

"Yes," he replies, uttering the words slowly, each one laced with irritation. "That's what I said."

"Because of what I just told you?"

"That too."

"What else, then?"

"Well, golly, I don't know Freckles, maybe because he's my friend too?"

"Yeah, right," she snorts. She almost rolls her eyes, but then starts when she notices the indignant look on his face and realizes that despite the heavy sarcasm he coated his voice with, he was only partly joking.

"The hell am supposed to say to that?" he calls out exasperated. "What do you want from me, Kate?"

His usage of her given name shakes her and makes her pause. His shoulders are slumped and he looks very tired all of sudden. She calms down and softens when she takes in his defeated stance. She feels guilty again, this time for yelling at him. She was putting him in an impossible position. It wasn't really his fault that the things played out the way they did. She knew they had to leave to avoid getting killed and that it was probably wiser to go back to the camp and regroup, arm themselves and perhaps gather more people, rather than come back right away, with their bare hands as their only weapons, but everything inside her rebelled against leaving Jack behind.

"We go back, then," she says, this time steadily.

He simply nods solemnly, half resigned, half relieved that she calmed down.

The air is still tense, however, as if the conversation wasn't over. They stare at each other, yet again, and she feels like he's waiting for something.

 _All or nothing_ , she remembers.

The idea of diving all in is a frightening one, almost petrifying. But the alternative is even worse.

"I want to try," she blurts unexpectedly and they both know that she's not talking about Jack anymore. "For real."

He closes the space between them in two long strides.

"Damn it, Freckles," he curses taking a hold of her face and cupping it in both of his hands. His mask is down and he seems to plead with her, his eyes intense and full of something akin to desperation. "Don't you get it? _This is real_."

She looks hard into his beautiful, beautiful eyes and suddenly she feels like crying. And then she does the only thing she can do. She kisses him.

He tastes like heartbreak, passion and freedom.

He kisses her back, softly, tentatively, and then again, and again, slowly and just as gently, as if making sure that it's not a fluke. She grips his shoulders to hold him in place, rises on the tips of her toes and moves her mouth to the side of his face, letting her breath tickle his cheek.

"Show me," she whispers into his ear.

There is no mistaking her meaning, but he still pulls back a fraction and looks at her for confirmation. When he finds what he's looking for, one of his arms wraps around her waist, pulling her flush against him before he goes right back to kissing her. He brushes his lips against dozen different spots on her face, as if he meant to kiss every single one of her freckles. She moves her hands over the planes of his body, not grasping, but smoothing open palms along his arms, chest, back, face, hair, wherever she could reach and touch him. It only seems to drive him wilder that she treats him this way – like he's something to be handled with care.

She shakes with quiet laughter when he mumbles something about finding a 'comfortable piece of a jungle' and she knows it won't make much difference, anyway, since judging from what she learned the last time it seemed inevitable for them to end up rolling around and switching places many times, neither of them content with passively taking things in. Her laughter morphs into a gasp when his fingers slip under her top.

"Yeah?" he asks softy, seeking her consent again, his hands poised to getting rid of the garment.

"Yeah," she agrees.

"This is real," he breaths when he lowers her onto the ground and then again when he eases himself between her legs, nesting into the cradle of her hips. Soon all there is are searching hands, hungry lips and the all-compassing rocking rhythm.

This time there is no guy beating him to bloody pulp, no loaded gun at his head, no ominous deadline hovering on the horizon, no-one and nothing but the two of them as her hands peel off his clothes, fist in his hair, and dance over his skin, urging him to come closer and melt into her. Her curves are soft under his fingers, but her limbs tangled with his are strong and nimble, all muscle wrapped into fine silk, and she wants him, _she wants him_ , the way no-one ever really wanted him before. He looks at her in wonder, her wild beauty leaving him breathless and he finds himself wanting to make her swear that she would never let anybody tame her.

"It's real," he groans when he finally sinks into the warmth that is Kate, not able to wait any second longer, and lets all of his senses to be engulfed by her. "God help me, this is real."

"James," she sighs, almost brokenly.

For a blissful, short (always too short) yet immeasurable amount of time after that the world is not a bad place at all, and his mind is locked on joy, and love, and the taste of strawberries.

Next time he speaks, his voice is raspy and she's not sure if he's talking to her or to some higher power:

"Please, let it be real."

She wants to tell him not to worry and that he's not alone anymore, but she's coming apart at the seams and her brain is hazy, so she's not sure how much sense she makes when all she manages to say is:

"It's okay. I'm here."

And then there is only his name on her lips, his real name, and he knows that he's done, gone, because nothing will ever erase how he feels at that moment.

…

"That real enough for you, Freckles?" he asks gruffly afterwards.

She only smiles into his skin.

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